


my dreams are nothing like they were meant to be

by outruntheavalanche



Series: Season 4 Supernatural Codas [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s04e16 On the Head of a Pin, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-20
Updated: 2009-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean sat on the end of the hospital bed and laced up his boots with trembling fingers.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	my dreams are nothing like they were meant to be

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta’d because it’s five in the morning. I wanted to slap some self-confidence into Dean by the end of the _On the Head of a Pin_ and I needed a brotherly love moment. So, here you go.
> 
> Title from “Sleeping Sickness” by City and Colour. A.K.A. my Dean theme song. :P
> 
> Originally posted on Livejournal.

Dean sat on the end of the hospital bed and laced up his boots with trembling fingers. It had been a long time since he could do something with his hands and not worry that he’d break it, or drop it, or fuck it up somehow. He couldn’t remember the last time his hands were steady. Couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t feel like throwing up, either.

Footsteps squeaked across linoleum and Dean looked up at the sound, twisting the bootlaces around his fingers so tight that his hands started to tingle. Sam flipped him a juicebox and shrugged.

“It’s all I had enough for,” he said apologetically, settling in a ratty armchair beside Dean’s bed. He stabbed his own juicebox with a plastic straw and took a sip. “It’s better than nothing, I guess.”

Dean finished lacing his boots and stood, picking his jacket up and smoothing out the wrinkles. “Thanks,” he said. His voice sounded foreign to his ears. It sounded rough-hewn and tired, so fucking tired.

Dean slipped the jacket on and zipped it up. Even the jacket felt wrong. It felt like it had been made to fit a bigger man.

He’d only been in the hospital for three days, just long enough for the doctors to determine he hadn’t suffered from any long lasting head trauma. Not even a concussion. Just a killer headache and enough pain meds to kill a horse.

The doctor had told him he was damn lucky the muggers hadn’t killed him. Damn lucky his brother got to him just in time and chased the thugs off.

Dean and Sam had only shared a brief look before Dean turned back to the doctor and agreed. _Yeah, I_ am _pretty damn lucky._

The doctor either couldn’t tell or didn’t care that Dean himself didn’t even sound convinced.

*

Dean let Sam drive this time. He told Sam he just didn’t _feel like it, too tired, too weak, you go ahead, Sammy, I’ll just take a nap_. Dean didn’t want to tell Sam that he thought he might drive them off the road if he took the wheel.

“So.” Sam eased the Impala out of the parking space. “How’re you feeling?”

Dean glanced out the window and watched as a nurse in wrinkled, puke-green scrubs wheeled an elderly lady in a powder blue robe to a waiting van. “Take a wild guess,” Dean rasped. His voice was still scraped raw after the battle with Alastair. It hurt to swallow, hurt to fucking _breathe_. Dean slipped a hand into the pocket of his jeans and felt the plastic bottle of pain pills the doctor had given him. He didn’t plan on using them. He wanted to feel the pain a little while longer. If he swallowed the pain away, he’d forget and he couldn’t afford to. He had to remember what he was.

“Don’t be hostile,” Sam said in a clipped-off tone, his nostils flaring.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Dean muttered.

Sam’s hands tightened on the steering wheel and Dean started to will Sam to lash out. He wanted to feel the burn of his cheek under Sam’s coiled knuckles. Wanted to taste his own blood on his lips. He’d more than earned it.

“Look, Dean, I know you and Cas talked about something. What--”

“I’m not talking about that,” Dean cut him off. He turned his head toward the window again. Tree and sky and cloud whipped by in a blur of color. Dean started to feel dizzy, and he closed his eyes.

“Why won’t you just talk to me?” Sam asked.

“There’s nothin’ to talk about,” Dean said. He crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his fingers against his crooked elbow.

Sam sighed. “How can I help you if I don’t know--”

“I don’t want you to help me. You _can’t_ help me,” Dean spat.

For a few minutes, the Impala cruised on in uncomfortable silence. Dean’s head began to throb and he pulled the plastic bottle out of his pocket. He turned it in his hand, tried to read the instructions on the bottle but all the letters blurred into a swirling gray blob. He flicked off the cap and dumped two chalky white capsules into his palm, popped them into his mouth and swallowed them dry.

Sam coughed lightly. “I don’t care what you want, Dean. You’re my brother.”

Dean shook his head. That just made the pounding his skull worse. “Sammy, don’t--”

“Don’t what? Don’t _care_?” Sam asked.

“Don’t make it any harder,” Dean finished.

“Make _what_ any harder? Stop speaking in riddles, Dean.”

“You were right,” Dean finally said.

“Me? About what?” Sam pulled into the parking lot of their latest motel and found a spot. He killed the engine and threw the keys on the dash, turning in his seat until he was facing Dean.

Dean refused to look at him. “About me bein’-- bein’ weak.”

“Dean, you _know_ I didn’t mean--”

“Don’t lie to me,” Dean snapped, lancing Sam with a hard look. “You meant what you said.”

Sam thinned his lips but just nodded for Dean to continue.

“I can’t do it anymore, Sammy,” Dean said. He felt his chest tighten, and if there was one thing he would never let himself do, it would be to break down in front of Sam. Sure, he’d cried in front of him before. But he’d never broken, not completely. Dean gathered the last remaining bits of his resolve and tried to hold on.

“Can’t do what?” Sam prompted.

“You need somebody better’n me.”

“Dean, dammit, don’t do this to me,” Sam said. He reached out and grabbed hold of Dean’s arm. “We’re in this together. Got it?”

Dean glanced over. “You’d be better off without me.”

“I don’t care.”

Dean tried to jerk his arm back but Sam didn’t loosen his grip. “I’m a liability now, Sammy. Just admit it.”

“We’ll-- we’ll get you back to full strength. We just need a little time to recupe, that’s all,” Sam said, but he didn’t even look like he believed it. And who could blame him?

“Don’t know if there’s enough time in the world for that,” Dean grumbled under his breath.

“If there isn’t, I’ll _make_ time,” Sam said, his voice firm and determined.

When Dean looked at Sam, looked into his eyes, he could almost believe it.


End file.
